Sick Day
by PuffPiece
Summary: Sam's sick. Dean's missing some rather important body parts. Warning: Amputee Dean. Follows Relearning to Fly (and Who You Gonna Call).


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: This story will make much more sense if you read the preceding stories – Reality Bites (and Then Spits You Back Out) and Relearning to Fly. Follows Who You Gonna Call.

"Uuuuhhhhh," Sam groans out, wriggling deeper under his blanket as a wave of chills courses through his body. A rattling cough erupts from his chest and he curls into himself, hoping to lessen the aches that have settled in his bones.

"Sam?" Dean's voice carries through the closed door but Sam can barely hear it from his position, head buried under his pillow trying to get the jackhammer inside to stop its incessant pounding.

Dean doesn't like the fact that Sam's not up and at 'em. If he doesn't get his act together he's going to be late for work. Sam hasn't been late to his job yet. Has been a model citizen in fact. Dean can't understand his brother's fascination with the mundaneness of having an office job. Well, he guesses he can; Sam's always been pointed due "Straight as an Arrow" while he himself has always been just slightly this side of "Shady Character".

Until now. Now he's just another guy, trying to live his life as best he can. Without some rather important body parts.

He gives another knock on his brother's door, using his elbow to gain the necessary force. "Sam!" A little more bellow behind his brother's name this time.

Dean cracks open the door and peers into the still darkened room, cautiously wheeling himself through the door, lest he interrupt any activities to which he'd rather not be privy. "Dude!" he tries again, wheeling himself closer to the lump under the covers.

He's answered by a muffled cough, then a groan as Sam's head swims out from its hiding place.

Dean parks his wheelchair next to Sam's side, then scooches as close to the edge of his chair as he can without losing his balance, reaching out and placing his right arm stump against his brother's flushed forehead. "Shit Sam," he says, the fever evident against the sensitive part of his residual limb.

Dean's mind races – he hasn't had to take care of Sam since his run-in with the Black Dog; it's been very much a one-way street in the opposite direction, as a matter of fact. His mind balances precariously on a teeter-totter, weighing the opportunity to return to his coveted Big Brother status against the very real possibility that he might not be able to do this.

Sam peels his eyes open and his fevered brain takes in the sight of his brother's nervous gesture, arm stumps rubbing against his leg stumps. He lets out another low moan as he rolls over in an attempt to get himself out of bed.

"Dude," Dean says, Sam's motion breaking him out of his reverie. "What are you doing? Lay down."

Sam flops back down onto his pillow, too weak to offer any arguments. "But," he tries, cutting off abruptly when another wave of coughing wracks his body.

"But nothing," Dean retorts. He shifts himself around in his wheelchair, tucking the covers back over his brother as best as his residual arms will allow. Sam's glassy eyes follow his motions dazedly before drifting closed again, flying back open only when another coughing fit works its way through his body.

Dean sits back in his chair and allows himself a minute of doubt, then decides to get his ass in gear. He rolls his way into their bathroom where he roots through the cabinet under the sink for his "Sick Sammy" supplies. They've tried to store the necessities in the lower cabinets so Dean can reach them, leaving the top shelves in the bathroom, kitchen, and closets for Sam's use. Dean's pretty sure his brother has pockets of porn stashed strategically out of his reach. The bastard never did like to share.

After a couple of brief curses and awkward contortions to get into the back corners of the cabinet, he deems his expedition a success. He pulls out the old-school mercury thermometer, holding it carefully between his arm stumps lest it break and give him mercury poisoning on top of everything else, then wedges it beneath his legs and digs out the bottle of Advil. He searches for a couple more minutes in vain, unable to locate any cough medicine to keep his brother's lungs in their proper place.

He wheels himself back to Sam's side and cajoles his brother to let him slide the thermometer into his mouth. Dean really hopes any previous germs have long since died; he just doesn't have the patience, let alone the dexterity, to clean the thing off with alcohol right now.

He sighs when the required time is up and his brother's fever reads 102 degrees Fahrenheit. _Shit._ He remembers Sam saying that a couple of his coworkers had been out sick the week before, a 48-hour bug or something. He hopes that's all this is. He thinks he can maybe manage 48 hours.

Sam slips back to the land of fevered dreams and Dean heads out to the living room, mentally preparing himself for a day filled with mundane but ridiculously challenging tasks. _Thank God for voice activated phones._ He pulls up Sam's work number and instructs the phone to call it, then uses the speaker function to talk with his coworker, letting her know Sam is down for the count.

"Poor Sam," she replies. "He's the third victim this week. Tell him to get better soon."

Dean promises he will, thinks about what a different connotation Sam's current "victim" status is compared to their previous lives. Task accomplished, he heads into the kitchen next in search of fluids to keep his brother hydrated and cool cloths for his fever. He pulls a couple of water bottles out of the fridge, tucking them between himself and the sides of his chair, then pulls out a couple of hand towels and runs them under cold water. He does his best to squeeze out the excess water, not wanting to drown Sam in the process, but ends up with rather saturated towels anyway since his stumps can't produce the necessary wringing motion.

He gets Sam to sit up for a few brief moments, enough for him to take a couple of sips of water and swallow some Advil (after his brother has to open the bottle on his own, childproof caps be damned), then gets him situated back in bed and tries to get Sam's sweaty hair off his face. Nose wrinkled at his now sweaty residual limbs, he quickly wipes them off on one of the towels which he then pats across Sam's forehead. He allows his right stump to lay on top of the towel for a minute, his left making little circles on his sick brother's chest like he's done since they were kids.

Sam's next bout of coughing reminds him of his other task. "Sam," he whispers urgently. Sam groans his alertness and Dean continues. "We got any cough medicine?" Sam's response is a weak head shake that sets the room to spinning and he rolls over, effectively undoing Dean's handiwork with the towels. Dean just hangs his head and sighs, then wheels himself out of Sam's room.

He tries calling Justin next door to see if he has any cough medicine but only gets voice mail. He runs through his small list of potentials, even considers making a quick trip to the nearby pharmacy, then decides to give Mrs. Walters a try.

He heads out the front door, careful to make sure that the lock is fully depressed, then knocks on the door of their neighbor across the hall. He's relieved when she answers the door, even if he is greeted by the sight of her in her bathrobe and her blue-tinged hair in curlers, giving her his best neighborly smile while trying to keep his eyes averted from the dangerously gaping overgarment.

"Oh dear," she says apologetically, when he's made his inquiry. "I can't take that stuff. Not with my diabetes and high blood pressure."

Dean nods and gives her a rather relieved smile. "No problem. Just thought I'd ask."

He turns to wheel himself back to their apartment when she adds, "But my niece is bringing me groceries in an hour or so. I could ask her to pick some up?"

"Oh, no. That's not necessary," Dean says, not wanting to cause any unnecessary hardship to the woman he barely knows.

"Sure it is. That's what neighbors are for."

Dean's slowly beginning to realize that he and Sam have stumbled into something akin to a support system. Justin, Kelli, Mrs. Walters. As crazy as some people are (Dean gives a reflexive shiver as the Benders pop into his head), they can also be pretty great. It just sucks that it took something as drastic as traumatic amputation for the Winchesters to find that out.

()()()()()()()()

"Dammit!" Dean exclaims as the measuring spoon slips out of the tenuous grip he had with his stumps. He's trying to measure coffee beans into their Grind-and-Brew machine, Sam having splurged a couple of months ago stating that if he was going to have to be a working stiff like the rest of America then at least he was going to enjoy his daily eye opener. Dean knows Sam's cravings, both for the normalcy of being a "working stiff" and for the hoity toity coffee maker, preceded his injuries by a long shot. And even if the machine is a bit "froufrou" for his blue collar liking, he has to admit that it does make damn fine coffee.

Except that Sam's currently comatose and in no shape to get the day's coffee percolating. And if Dean doesn't mainline some caffeine pretty damn soon, someone's going to die.

Dean's been practicing the fine art of coffee making. As much as getting the beans from the bag into the machine can be considered practicing, anyway. But for a guy who's missing the lower portions of his arms, it's not as easy as it sounds. He's not sure he could actually handle the remainder of the task but desperate times, blah blah blah. And just as he's almost finagled the little bits of caffeinated goodness into their proper grinding receptacle, the knocking at the door breaks his concentration, causing the coffee beans to scatter to the floor. Where they most definitely will not give Dean his caffeine fix.

"Dammit," he says more forcefully as the knock on the door repeats. He wheels himself towards said offense, ready to give this latest solicitor a piece of his caffeine-withdrawing mind. Having never stayed in one place long enough to enjoy the banality of domesticity, Dean had been unaware that there were so many door-to-door visitors trying to either sell him something (Sorry – no hands to hold your magazines), convert him (Why yes, he does know what hell is about, thank you very much), or offer a free roofing estimate (Seriously? They live in an apartment. That guy was either just plain stupid or high; Dean had "Christo'd" him just to be sure).

He works to open the door with his left stump, using his right to maneuver his chair into view of whoever's interrupted his quest for caffeine.

"Unless you're selling coffee or mechanical arms, I don't want any," he says, already relishing the discomfort his disability can evoke.

He peers up at his interruption, the rest of his diatribe dying on his lips as he takes in the woman standing in front of him. He'd guess her to be a little younger than Sam (although who can really tell nowadays), on the taller side for a woman (although from where he now sits, he really has no frame of reference), and the spiky bleached hair and tattoo peeking out from under her shirt sleeve are in stark contrast to the business casual attire she's wearing.

"Sorry," she says, her quirked right eyebrow drawing attention to the metal spike running vertically through the outer portion. "I'm afraid you're out of luck. Don't get my shipments in until tomorrow." She holds out a bottle of cough syrup in one hand, throwing her other thumb over her shoulder to the door behind where she's standing. "I'm Laura. Mrs. Walters' niece. Do I have the right place?"

Dean puts his right arm behind his head, a remnant from when he would rub his neck in embarrassment, then brings it back down when he remembers the futility of the gesture. "Sorry," he says with a wry laugh. "Thought you were someone else."

"Clearly," she says, her own lip tugging slightly upwards. "Do I have the right neighbor?" she asks again, shaking the bottle a little to remind him why she's here.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." He takes the bottle from her and tucks it between his leg stumps, briefly cursing yet another childproof cap to contend with. "Let me get you some money," he says, turning to wheel himself back into the apartment.

"Not necessary," she calls after him.

Dean ignores her (they don't take charity after all, and he still hasn't gotten the hang of the whole neighborly niceness thing) and collects his wallet from where it's lying on an end-table next to their sofa. He's able to open it up, but just stares at it for a few seconds when he realizes that he's not sure how to get any money out; they could be here all day waiting for the paper bills to wander out on their own accord. Sam's been the money man since his injury. He briefly considers his options, then just takes the wallet over to her and asks her to get out what she needs.

"Seriously?" she asks, eyebrow quirking up again. "I could just rob you blind, you know."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, good luck with that. You'd get away with a whole twenty dollars, a coupon for buy-one-get one sandwiches, and a coffee punch card."

"The coffee card I'll take," she says, fishing out a couple of ones and handing the wallet back to him without following through on her threat.

He lets a low moan escape from his lips, the reminder of his coffee withdrawal time bomb brought back to the forefront of his mind.

"You ok over there?" she asks, absently tucking the money into her pants pocket.

"Yeah, fine." He's not sure why he continues, only thinks that the lack of caffeine has effectively short-circuited what little filter he usually has. "Just need coffee, that's all," he mutters to the universe in general.

She hesitates, giving him a more thorough once-over, and then continues. "Got any extra? I did just provide door to door delivery, after all."

Dean gives a sheepish smile, stops himself from trying to rub his neck again, and then admits to his current predicament.

"Need any help?"

"Nah, I'm ok." While he'd actually not mind the help, he doesn't want to appear needy. Well, any more so than a guy without hands or legs would normally appear.

"You sure? You'd actually be saving me, you know." She gives him a sly smile. "If I go back over there, I have to drink her coffee." She pauses a beat before continuing. "You have tasted my aunt's coffee before, right?"

Dean fails to keep the memory off of his face. He has, in fact, been victim to Mrs. Walters' well-intentioned coffee-klatch. Once. Weakest-ass coffee he's ever tasted ("What with my high blood pressure and all", she'd explained). And while he never thought he'd meet a pie he didn't like, Mrs. Walters has changed his mind on that front as well. Sugar free crap because of her diabetes. Seriously. He'd almost spat it back out, thinking he was being poisoned.

She can see that he knows what she's talking about and gives another verbal nudge. "And today is Tuesday." At his blank look, she continues. "Sugar free cookie day."

Dean shudders, wondering how many of his favorite foods his neighbor can possibly ruin. She's nice enough, but there isn't enough "nice" in the world that can take the place of sugar.

He gives her another considering look, gears shifting as he takes in her incongruous appearance, trying to balance his need for self-sufficiency with a damn cup of coffee.

A coughing fit from Sam's room reminds Dean why he's talking with this woman in the first place and he makes a quick executive decision. "Tell you what," he says, motioning her into the apartment. "I have to go take care of my germy little brother. If you happen to stumble upon the partially-filled coffee machine that needs another 3 scoops of beans and eight cups of water and accidentally hit the 'Grind' button and then by chance pour two mugs when it's done, I won't stop you."

He wheels into Sam's room, smiling to himself when she heads into the kitchen.

()()()()()()()()

Sam cracks his eye as his brother rolls into his room, curls into himself as another coughing fit leaves him slightly breathless. "Who are you talking to?" he asks, when his lungs no longer threaten to jump out of his chest.

"Laura," Dean replies distractedly, his focus on the bottle of cough medicine wedged between his thighs. He gives a little grunt as he tries to hold it in place with his legs while applying the proper downward pressure/twisting motion with his arm stumps in order to get the lid off.

"Who?" Sam asks, holding out his hand for the bottle that Dean's nowhere close to being able to open.

Dean gives an exasperated growl, then places the bottle in Sam's hand, watching enviously as he easily opens it and sips straight from the bottle.

"Dean," Sam tries again.

"What?"

"Laura?"

He shakes himself out of the mini "no hands" pity party and replies, "Mrs. Walter's niece. Brought you that," he says, gesturing to the bottle Sam's still sipping. "Dude," he says, realizing his brother's had enough. "Put it down. Go back to sleep."

Sam doesn't even argue, just recaps the bottle (which Dean takes so Sam doesn't try to re-dose himself later) and snuggles back under the covers. Dean can just barely hear the muffled "Is she hot?" that Sam throws his way and he pauses on his way out of the room. He's really not sure. Not his usual type. But then his usual type probably won't even look at him twice anymore. Not that he's in the market; still just in the "trying to be a human being" stage in his life right now. But he guesses in her own way she's not bad looking.

He's spared having to answer when he hears Sam's soft snores floating towards him and makes a pit-stop in the bathroom, carefully de-germing his stumps after his contact with Sam, before wheeling himself to the kitchen like a caffeine-seeking missile.

"Oh God, I think I love you," Dean mutters to the coffee mug sitting on the table in front of him.

"We just met, but thanks," Laura replies dryly from where she's seated across the table.

Dean snorts as he pulls the mug towards himself, weighing the urgency of caffeine ingestion against burning and/or making a fool of himself. He throws a brief glare at the mug and then wheels himself over to the drawer where they keep the straws, pulling out one of his hated necessities. If his arm stumps were just a couple of inches longer, he might not need the straws. Might be able to get the cup to his mouth without straining his neck every damn time. But, he hears Nadine's voice remind him, at least you have what you have. And what he has allows him some semblance of self-sufficiency with feeding, maneuvering, and personal care. He has, in fact, thought how royally screwed he'd be if his residual arms were any shorter. He's not sure the Angel Prozac would be enough to handle that fate.

Shaking himself out of that depressing line of thought, he resettles himself at the table and takes a long-overdue pull of liquid brain stimulation. He lets out a rather inappropriate-sounding groan, causing Laura to give a snort of her own.

"Want me to leave you two alone?" she asks taking a sip of her own coffee. She looks like she's contemplating no such thing. Looks rather relaxed in fact – slouched back against the chair, legs crossed at the knee, hands loosely wrapped around her own mug of goodness. Smirk playing at the edges of her mouth.

Dean loses his grip on the straw, loses precious seconds of caffeinated brain stimulation chasing the damn thing around, then firmly clamps the straw between his teeth, resolute in continuing his current number one priority. When he finally comes up for air, he just shakes his head. "Nah, what kind of guy would I be if I just used you for your coffee-making skills?"

Her smirk widens, as do her eyes. "A guy."

Dean keeps quiet, unsure how to respond to that accusation.

"Sorry," she says, hand help up in a placating gesture. "Just call me Jaded." She takes another couple of sips, then decides to put voice to her curiosity. "So what's your story?"

Dean lets out a slightly choked cough, the abruptness of her question catching him off-guard. Although he should be used to it by now. It's one of the first things people usually ask after meeting him.

"You mean how did I wind up missing some rather important body parts?" he asks, shifting himself around in his chair a bit.

She nods, refilling the coffee cups they've both managed to suck dry.

"Wild animal attack," he says, nodding in thanks at the refuel.

"Must have been some animal," she says, a grimace on her face.

Truthfully, Dean can't remember much about the actual attack. Just knows that he and Sam were out hunting a Black Dog and he acted on instinct when he saw the beast making a play for Sam. He has flashes of memory here and there, but either his brain has put up a wall blocking out the memories he knows Sam can't get rid of or the Angel Prozac has an off-label benefit as an amnestic; he really doesn't care which.

"Yeah," he says, voice husky. He clears his throat and quirks a small smile. "I really hate camping."

"No shit," she huffs out, causing him to let out another snort.

She takes another couple of sips of coffee and Dean can see her thoughts travel somewhere far away before her gaze returns to him, a mixture of confusion and sorrow and something else Dean can't quite read playing out on her face.

"My brother lost his leg in a motorcycle accident."

Dean doesn't quite know how to react to that; dips his head and utters a rather benign, "Sorry to hear that." He looks at her, figures there's more to the story. "How's he doing?"

Her gaze sharpens on him and her lips tighten into a thin line. "He killed himself."

Dean chokes on the sip of coffee that's halfway down his esophagus, completely unprepared for this admission from a relative stranger. His little episode has the side-effect of breaking her out of her reverie and she half-rises from the table, ready to do the Heimlich if needed.

Dean gets his breathing back under control, reassuring her that life-saving measures will not be necessary today. Then blanches at his poor choice of words given her recent statement.

She's back to her previous laid-back persona, however, not even flinching at his faux pas. "So," she says, inquisitive gleam back in her eyes, "what were you before you got injured?"

"You mean besides devastatingly handsome?" he asks, throwing his best "Blue Steel" her direction.

"Like a job," she answers once her laughter has died down.

"Oh," he says, his own laugh laced with a hint of sadness. "A mechanic." It's as close to the truth as he can come. If he weren't a hunter, he would have followed in his father's footsteps, the inner machinations of the automotive world the only other place that made sense to him.

"Oh," she says, echoing him.

"Yeah," he says, correctly reading her glance as it takes in his arm stumps where they lie next to his coffee mug. "Kind of need your hands for that. Legs wouldn't hurt any either."

"Can't you get prosthetics?"

"Shit," Dean breathes out, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. "I knew there was something I was forgetting."

She lets out another laugh, then shakes her head. "Sorry for the twenty questions. My mom has threatened on numerous occasions to sew my mouth shut."

Dean gives a small chuckle, remembering his dad's similar threats to Sam during his teenage years. Hell, he's been tempted to Duct Tape the kid's mouth shut on more than one occasion himself.

And he's more than a little relieved when Laura gets up from her chair and rinses out her coffee cup, effectively calling their coffee break to a close. How do you explain to someone that you're officially dead several times over, probably still on the FBI's Most Wanted list, and unable to get more than borderline-legitimate health insurance?

"Hope you're not in trouble with the boss," he says, having not had the opportunity to figure her out. Like what kind of job she has that allows her to leave work for a couple of hours during regular business hours, shooting the breeze with a relative stranger.

"Nah," she says, throwing a look over her shoulder that hovers somewhere between confident badass and wounded puppy. "I am the boss." She closes the door behind her, leaving Dean feeling just a touch like Mister Rogers. "Who are the people in your neighborhood?"

()()()()()()()()

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Dean calls, muttering to himself, "keep your pants on." He gives his freshly washed hair a final towel dry, using his stumps to force it into some semblance of a hairstyle that doesn't look like he used an electrical outlet.

He'd just gotten out of the shower when Laura called, asking if she could stop by in a few minutes. He'd laughed out loud when she'd said under her breath "For the love of God, let me make some coffee, please. She's got me drinking her freeze dried decaf crap." Then a little louder, obviously to her aunt, "Oh you shouldn't have. Sugar-free coffee cake. My favorite." Her tone of voice said otherwise.

He opens the door and wheels himself back, not daring to get between her and her caffeine; and he thought he was bad. She wastes no time in getting a pot of full strength coffee percolating, busies herself with washing a few stray dishes while she's waiting.

Dean takes a quick detour to peek in on Sam, who's still sacked out in his bed for the second day in a row, although seemingly over the worst of whatever virus he's picked up. Satisfied that his brother is again down for the count, he wheels himself into the kitchen, warily circling an aluminum foil-wrapped plate she's deposited on the table.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asks, hoping she'll say no.

"Yes."

 _Crap._

"You don't have to eat it," she says, pushing it towards him with a gleam in her eye. "But I dare you."

Dean gives her the hairy eyeball, working the foil off the plate to take a peek at what lies underneath. He wrinkles his nose, works the adaptive cuff with the fork onto his right arm without bothering to monitor her reaction to the awkward process, and then takes a tentative bite.

She laughs at his face, the dismay at the confirmation that the coffee cake is, in fact, sugar free quite evident as he tries to decide between swallowing the bite and spitting it back out; he decides on the former.

"I told her how much you loved her pie," she says, still clearly enjoying herself. "You're on her list now." She wags her eyebrows at him.

Dean lets out a groan, working the cuff back off of his arm. "You are pure evil, you know that?"

She barks out another laugh. "So I've been told."

She pours them both a mug of coffee, then takes up residence in the same chair she'd used the previous day. "How's Sam today?"

"Better. Should be able to go back to work tomorrow." His brother had, in fact, tried to convince Dean that he was ready to go back today, but Dean's call to Sam's office assured him that they didn't want him back yet either. "Keep him quarantined!" were the actual words used. And so, his brother was resting more peacefully today, actual sleep instead of cough and fever-broken fits and spurts.

Which meant that Dean needed to get to work.

"Can you give me a hand?" he asks, past the point of flinching over the common phrase that no longer applies to him in a practical manner of speaking. She looks at him quizzically and he continues, "Can you get some stuff down off a shelf for me?"

"Yeah, no problem. Where am I headed?" she says, standing up, coffee cup embedded in her hand.

"Not sure," he admits with an apologetic smile. "Don't know where Sam put it when he unpacked."

In truth, he's just planning to have her explore the upper shelves, see what she comes up with. "Just start up there," he says.

"What am I looking for?" she asks, heading out to the closet in the hallway where Dean's already parked his chair.

"I'll know it when I see it," he lies.

Ten minutes later and Sam's been well and truly busted.

"Sammy, you dirty dog," Dean says under his breath when Laura appears from the bathroom holding a stack of rather nefarious-looking skin mags.

"Yeah right," she snorts. "You gonna play the 'Honest, I don't know where these came from. They're not mine' card?"

Dean does his best boy scout imitation, telling her his imaginary fingers are giving her the scout's honor (instead of his more favored middle finger salute) and repeats her. "They're not mine. My brother is a dirty, dirty whore."

"Besides," he says, holding up both arm stumps, "can't really turn the pages."

She cocks her head to the side, considers his statement without offering apologies or looking like she wants to crawl under a rock. For which Dean is eternally grateful.

"So can I ask you another question?" she says, depositing the magazines onto the coffee table in the living room and settling onto the couch. Before he can take a breath to make a deal that she answer some of his own questions in return, she continues. "How are you doing it?"

His head snaps up, acutely aware of the wavering tone that's replaced her usual confidence.

"How are you keeping it together?" she continues, picking at a stray thread on the arm of the couch. "I mean, you're four times more screwed than Brian was, and he couldn't handle it." Her gaze turns to Dean, zeroing in on him like he's about to divulge the secret of life.

Dean glances down at his body, takes in the four stumps to which she's referring, guessing that Brian was the name of her brother. "Uuuhhhh," he says, not really sure how to answer her. _How do you explain Angel Prozac?_

"I'm sorry," she says, roughly wiping a rogue tear from the corner of her eye. She gives a nervous laugh, barely covering the hitched breath underneath. "Just tell me to shut up."

He wheels himself closer, parks his chair next to where she's seated. "Truthfully?" he says, right arm gliding back to scratch his neck. He's too busy contemplating his answer to stop himself this time. "I have no fucking clue." Not the entire truth, but close enough. He just keeps going. _Like a really fucked up Energy Bunny._

She gives a barely visible nod, uses her sleeve to try to discretely wipe away another rogue tear. "I just don't know why he did it," she whispers.

Dean thinks through the myriad answers to her statement. Can't come up with anything worth verbalizing. Because, honestly, he gets it. Gets the feeling that there's no other way out. Gets the feeling of hopelessness. Gets the feeling of not wanting to be a burden to anyone else. Has felt those exact same things, in fact.

But he's never gotten to the point of considering doing what her brother did. Besides the fact that he's not sure that he physically could, Sam's admission while he was still in the hospital weighs on him almost daily. He'd be leaving Sam behind. And while at times he's thought maybe that would be for the best (one less rock around Sam's neck, so to speak), he truly believes Sam when he'd said he couldn't let him go.

Speaking of Sam, he could really use him right about now. His big puppy dog eyes always seem to emote the proper amount of concern; his big mouth always seems to know just what to say. _Dammit._

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, both lost in their own little worlds of confusion, when a cough from Sam's room breaks them out of their respective musings.

Laura gives a watery smile, "Sorry to be such a downer today," she says, giving a sniff and a nervous laugh.

"No worries," Dean says, just thankful to not have to answer her questions. Because he's never even admitted his feelings to Sam, let alone an almost complete stranger. His brother would so kick his ass if he told her instead of him – he lives for that shit. Not that Sam probably hasn't already guessed; kid has an emo detector like no other.

And he could use a couple more weapons in his anti-Sam arsenal. He gives her a considering look and asks her for one more favor.

Ten minutes later and she's managed to find several Black Sabbath tapes he thought he'd lost, an old shirt he could have sworn he'd left at some seedy motel a couple of years ago, and his second-favorite knife which had gone missing a couple of months before the Black Dog hunt.

Laura snickers at the look on Dean's face. "That's what our dog used to do," she says, when Dean tells her this is all his stuff and it looks like his brother's been quietly stealing from him for years. "It's a sign of loyalty."

 _Great,_ Dean thinks. _My big giant dopey brother is a thieving dog._

()()()()()()()()

"Shit," Dean mutters for the hundredth time over the past two days. He's rooting through the bottom shelves of their kitchen, searching for something to get into Sam's stomach besides the water that's been his only sustenance for the past day. His stumps bat aside the cans of soup (they haven't yet invested in an electric can opener and even Dean can't MacGyver through a metal can), searching instead for the boxes of dried chicken noodle that he knows are under there somewhere.

"Come to daddy," he says, spying his target and working to get it out from behind the behemoth bag of Costco rice without tipping out of his chair. Box secured in his lap, he makes his way over to the microwave that's been placed on a card table he can easily reach. He's able to open the box with a combination of his teeth and adaptive stick, then uses his teeth to oh-so-carefully tear the top off the individual soup packet that's clutched tightly between his arm stumps before dumping the entire packet into a microwave-safe bowl. A couple of cups of water transferred rather tediously from a small measuring cup complete the recipe and he's able to gingerly place the bowl in the microwave, again using his stick to push the appropriate buttons.

He briefly wonders why he didn't ask Laura for help before she left, then quickly ushers that thought out of his head. _I've got this._

He hooks a tray onto the arms of his wheelchair, his leg stumps too short to offer enough stability for a tray on his lap, and then slides his arms into a set of kitchen mitts. He's learned his lesson only too well. Nadine had helped him desensitize his stumps in hopes of prosthetics, not to prevent him from being stupid and burning himself on every-day household objects.

He sets up his little "Sick Sammy" tray, complete with a couple of paper towels and a spoon, then carefully wheels himself into his brother's room, trying to keep his pace steady so as not to madden the slightly tipsy bowl of soup which is already threatening to cascade onto his lap.

"Hey," he says to Sam, once he's locked his chair into position at the side of Sam's bed. "Dinnertime."

Sam rolls over towards him and lets out a groan, which, Dean is happy to hear, is not followed by his lungs trying to escape his chest cavity. Sam slowly works his way upright, where he slumps against the head of the bed, but Dean can see the fever flush has toned down even further. He makes Sam check his temperature again before the soup can cause any false alarms and is relieved to see that it's hovering at near normal levels.

"How you feeling there kiddo?" Dean asks, bringing out his big brother slang from days long past.

"Better, I guess," Sam grinds out, swallowing another round of Advil from the bottle Dean's placed in his hand, still holding his head against the change in altitude.

"Here," Dean says, holding the soup out towards his brother, stumps safely covered by the oven mitts he'd brought along for the occasion. "Careful, it's hot. Just take the oven mitts with the bowl." He didn't think to bring along anything to prevent Sam from burning his own fingers and he carefully slides his arms out once he's sure Sam has a grip on both the bowl and the mitts.

"You did this?" Sam asks, blowing gently on the steaming soup before taking a few tentative slurps.

"Yeah," Dean replies, barely keeping his eyeroll in check. "I've got mad kitchen skills. Just call me Julia Child."

"No, it's good." Sam takes another couple of slurps, wipes a dribble of soup off of his chin. "I mean, it's the same shitty soup we've eaten for years. But you made it." Sam catches his brother's eye and holds his gaze. "Like you always do when I'm sick."

Dean dips his head, not wanting to burst his brother's bubble with the fact that he couldn't manage to work the coffee maker on his own.

"Seriously Dean," Sam continues, drawing his brother's gaze up and back towards him. "Thanks. I don't know what I would've done without you."

Dean's reply gets stuck on the lump in his throat. He's the one that should be thanking Sam for all's he done. His brother has gone beyond the call of duty. To places brothers never thought they'd have to go. He's been dealing with Dean's disabilities better than Dean ever thought possible; Dean's managed to just barely keep Sam hydrated for 48 hours.

Instead, he answers with his usual deflection. "No problem Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Oh, by the way," Dean says, smirking at his brother as he wheels himself out of the room. "Found your skin mags, you dirty whore. And keep your hands off my stuff you Klepto."

Author's Note: Thanks for your kind words! Close follow-up in the works – stay tuned.


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